


Musical Chairs

by khaleesian



Category: Tombstone (1993)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 15:46:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khaleesian/pseuds/khaleesian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are men who want peace and all kinds of complicated things. Doc Holliday's never been one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Musical Chairs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tealightwhimsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealightwhimsy/gifts).



The wind died down at the same time the conversation tapered off leaving the saloon in a rare vale of quiet, the chill air of December creeping past the crackle of flames trapped in the potbellied stove. Morgan shivered and automatically rearranged the cards in his hand: eight, nine, jack, king, ace. He lifted his eyes to the green baize of the table, the amber-gold in his glass. Needed a little red to be truly festive but there was none in his hand.

He grimaced down at the cards feeling a distinct lack of Christmas cheer. Even the thin powdering of snow did not lend Tombstone any merry air. It merely crunched up into ruts under the wagon wheels and kept Louisa, Allie and Mattie at home. Morgan couldn’t really blame them for wanting to stick close to the homestead. Since the corral, all the eyes and silence in town had grown oppressive.

“Wake up, Morg.” Wyatt sounded exasperated. “You holding pure gold, are you?”

Morgan stirred and shot a quick glance around the table. Wyatt was glaring at him expectantly, the deck poised in his hand. Virgil had settled into a brood regarding his own cards with a frown and Doc…Morgan quickly dropped the eight and nine on the table before shooting another furtive glance at Doc Holliday. The scarlet waistcoat spangled with the heavy gold watch chain was eye-catching enough, but surely he had to be imagining the gleam in Doc’s green eyes.

Morgan scrabbled up the fresh cards Wyatt had supplied. A one and a four. He sighed and folded at the next ante.

Wyatt shook his head at him both wry and fond. “The only thing you’re worse at than faro is poker.”

Morgan opened his mouth for a tart response, but a drawling defense came from an unexpected quarter.

“Leave him alone, Wyatt.” Doc Holliday pushed his ante into the pot with an unconscious flourish. “Poor Morgan’s probably just wondering why the hell he’s commemorating the birth of our savior in the company of a bunch of gamblers, drunkards, whores and thieves.”

Morgan stirred uncomfortably. That was a little too close to the truth. Doc had caught the eye of one of the Oriental’s freshest doves and his grin made her blush until her freckles disappeared. She retreated to the edge of the bar and downed a quick slug, purposefully declining eye contact with anyone at their table. Doc had watched Kate vanish earlier with a prospector (who had been a soap factory manager back East and still smelled of it) with a detached equanimity that Morgan had found more than a little unnerving.

“If you recall your scriptures, Morgan, you’ll remember that our Lord was ever one to share company with the undeserving. Adulterers and murderers and such. Sinners obviously more in need of His assistance.” Doc took a long drag of his cigarillo. “Plus I imagine they’re a mite more amusing.”

“Never figured you were much of one for the Gospel mill, Doc.” Morgan returned pertly.

“Too true. It has been a while since me and the Almighty were on speaking terms.” Doc smiled again and signaled the boy to pour him out another. “But I do believe in hedging my bets.”

“You here to blaspheme or play cards?” Virgil rumbled. Virgil never made much of a secret of how little he approved of Doc. Doc usually responded with elaborate contrition that was in truth no contrition at all.

Wyatt tapped the table with an air of infinite patience. Morgan couldn’t help but grin a little as Doc mimed a chastened look and fanned out his cards in response to Wyatt’s unspoken call. Full house. Wyatt hmmphed something between a chuckle and a grunt and scooped up the discards for Virgil’s deal. Doc fluttered his eyelashes coquettishly as he swept in the small pot.

“Last hand, Doc?” Wyatt asked as if he didn’t care two ways about it.

“Surely you jest.” Doc smirked at Wyatt, blinking lazily as Virgil rolled his eyes.

Morgan found himself wondering as he’d done at least a dozen times before, what continued to draw his reserved (not to say _dour_ ), pragmatic (not to say _hardheaded_ ) brother to stay friends with the flamboyant Southerner. The genesis of the friendship he’d never questioned, as Wyatt simply said that Doc had saved his life and Morgan could well believe it. But if Doc had saved Wyatt’s life seven times, he’d gone on to endanger it at least seven times seventy times. A loose tongue and a hot temper didn’t lead anyone to a quiet life around here, but Wyatt was still inclined to spend long evenings in Doc’s company even if it did prove hazardous to his health.

Now, in the aftermath of the corral, he had seen why. It was a form of turnabout. If Doc wouldn’t hesitate to back his brothers with two Colts and a shotgun, neither would they let Doc dig himself into a hole with a three day poker binge. Even if it meant playing late on Christmas Eve with warm women waiting at home.

“This reminds me of the last hand I played with Pat Garrett up in Prescott.” Doc leaned back on his elbow. “You remember old Garrett, don’t you Virgil?”

Virgil grunted acknowledgement.

“We had a hot game going…hotter n’ a whore on cowboy payday and old Garrett managed to lose $500 on a pair of aces. The strain was a bit more than his heart could bear.”

Doc took a moment to light another cigarillo. “He keeled over dead right there on the floor and somehow it came about that I was to be the one to go and notify his lady wife.”

“I wasn’t sure how I was going to do it, so my ...compatriots told me just to give her the whole story. That was reassuring, but still I dreaded the task. I rode out to their spread and took my hat in my hand…”

Doc spread his hand over his chest and grinned at Morgan through half-lidded eyes. “She opened the door and I said, ‘Ma’am, I feel obliged to inform you that your Mistuh Garrett has lost $500 playing poker’. She narrowed her eyes at me and told me flat out: ‘You tell that son of a biscuit-eater that I hope he drops dead.’”

Doc paused a moment and tilted his head up. A trick of the light from the kerosene chandelier gave the fleeting impression of a halo. “So I said, yes ma’am, I shall certainly tell him.”

Morgan burst out laughing as Virgil just shook his head. Wyatt might have been smiling underneath his moustache.

“I reckon that exactly….” Wyatt paused, looking up at the ceiling. “…none of that is true.”

“Why Wyatt, I never lie.” Doc grinned, smoothing the end of his moustache. “However, I have been known to exaggerate.”

Occasionally, only very occasionally, Morgan found himself noticing how very unique Doc was. Cruel in his honesty, both charming and vulgar. Utterly immoral and yet likable for all of that. Almost feminine in his unpredictability. Morgan cut his eyes sideways at the pale curve of Doc’s clean shaven cheek. Indeed, Doc had all the wit and warmth of a woman, with none of the fear.  

Morgan had survived long enough to recognize a dangerous thought just as easily as a dangerous man. Morgan hunkered down further over his cards, trying to quash the thoughts because the room was already chock-full of dangerous men.   

 “Why Morgan, it looks like you’re having one of those…what do you call ‘em?” Doc drawled, hooking a finger through his watch chain. He arched one eyebrow. “...Epiphanies? Do enlighten us.”

Morgan flushed and it was all he could do to keep from stuttering out a denial. He looked down at his cards and noted dimly that he had a straight flush.

“What ever could you be thinking of?” Doc settled deeper into his chair.

“He thinks he’s got something.” Wyatt offered dismissively, signaling the barman. In his whole life, Wyatt had never abandoned his authoritative equanimity. Even when they had been rousting drunks and mudsills from brothels in Iowa, Wyatt was inclined to act more the postal inspector than the fancy-man.   

Virgil snorted a disbelieving chuckle. He was dealing out a fresh pair to Wyatt and he raised his bushy eyebrows when Morgan didn’t throw anything down.

“Lash yourself to the mast, Odysseus.” Doc advised Morgan earnestly. “Heed not their siren song. You stand by the cards you got.”

Much to his surprise, Morgan took the hand. Wyatt used Doc’s pure bemusement to extract them from the tables and they might have gotten clear away, but for a young whore who wanted Doc to play accompaniment to a game of musical chairs. That was jolly enough to keep them laughing past midnight, when the game tapered off and Doc began playing a particularly mournful rendition of Für Elise.

Even though he had been laughing the moment before, it didn’t take more than a few bars before Morgan wanted Doc to come back to the poker table, fiddle a dance for them, ride to Tucson, anything other than play another note. The room had fallen silent and Wyatt was looking into his glass as though he was hypnotized.

He wouldn’t have dared a few months before. But he was just drunk and desperate enough to slide on the bench next to Doc before the melancholy paralyzed them all.

“You’d best find a seat before the music stops.” Doc counseled him seriously. He was sweating lightly and his color was…no color at all. Doc’s face had a hint of gray now and it made his eyes startlingly green.

“We ain’t playing that game anymore, Doc.” Morgan reminded him gently. This was a delicate place. The time while Doc wasn’t too drunk to function, but still oiled enough to say something that might get him killed.

“Oh, make no mistake young Morgan.” Doc tilted his chin up until his cravat pulled out of his waistcoat. “We are **always** playing that game.”

Morgan stopped, flummoxed. “Umm.”

“They need me.” Doc cut his eyes over to Wyatt and Virgil, dark as crows at the bar. “They don’t realize it, but they do. To drown out the noise.”

“What noise, Doc?” Morgan asked, feeling like he was trying to gentle a restless horse.

“Listen.” Doc sat up straight and stilled his fingers. Another vale of quiet descended on the saloon, the wind softened and suddenly Morgan could hear it. The tick, tick, tick of the grandfather clock that Milt Joyce kept in the corner. Morgan shivered involuntarily and noticed that Doc was watching him.

Doc raised his eyebrows and played a few bars of ‘The Camptown Races’ before starting to cough.

Morgan suppressed another shiver, listening to Doc wheeze. The cough that would leave a healthy man flushed left Doc pale and pearled with sweat with his eyes unnaturally shiny. He would have fallen off the bench, if Wyatt hadn’t bundled him to his feet. Wyatt held Doc lover-close for a moment as Doc’s head bobbed on his neck. Then he shot a glance at Morgan that Morgan couldn’t parse.

“See that he gets upstairs, would you?” Wyatt commanded gruffly. He handed Doc’s pleasantly solid weight off into Morgan’s helpless embrace.  It was all Morgan could do to chivvy and cajole Doc up the stairs; more than once Morgan was tempted to simply hitch his hands under Doc’s thighs and carry him.

Doc was declaiming in something more than a whisper, a heavy warmth in Morgan’s arms as they backed through the narrow door to his suite, his breath caramel-sweet with whiskey. “How like a winter hath my absence been, from thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!  That’s…”

“Shakespeare.” Morgan panted unthinkingly, grappling Doc onto the bed. “Sonnet 97.”

“Why Morgan Earp, not so dull and dusty after all.” Doc chuckled and then, electrifyingly cupped a smooth hand over the ledge of Morgan’s jaw. Morgan froze stock still as Doc brushed a thumb firmly over his cheekbone. “I reckon there’s still a bit of shine underneath. You just want a firm polishing.”

Morgan unfroze and thought dismissively _he’s drunk_. Doc’s body was fever hot under his bracing hand, but not quite as limp and loose as it had been a moment before. Doc loosened his arm around Morgan’s shoulder as he sank into the cushions.

“See up here you’re like the ass end of an ugly horse.” Doc tapped Morgan’s moustache cheerfully as Morgan tried to wrestle him up onto the bolster. “Whereas _here_ …” Doc drew a finger down under Morgan’s loosened collar, tracing the long line of his collarbone. “You are a right rose of Sharon.”

Morgan became conscious of where Doc’s knee turned outward, pressing into the muscle just above his knee. Which might have been just to brace himself, keep his drunken weight from sliding off the satin coverlet or it might…not. Suddenly, he didn’t want to go out into the cold and silence. Silence but for that ticking clock.

Morgan dug his toes in and hardened the long muscle in his thigh like he was mounting an ornery horse.

“Is that a bluff, Doc? Or do you mean it for real play?” Morgan murmured, his heart thrumming in the thrill of his own daring.

He could just make out the gleam of white as Doc chuckled, low and exultant.  

****

The cold was sharpest, bitterest when he managed to pull himself from the downy nest of the bed. He was almost glad of the prickling scourge of goose bumps as he pulled on his shirt and boots. He flinched when a sudden flare of light burst the starlit indigo darkness.

Doc shook the match out gently and Morgan smelled the rich scent of his cigarillo. Morgan hunched over, half from the chill, half from shame that he didn’t have a thing to say. The sweetness, the pleasure of it seemed unreal, like a dream. He stood up and blundered toward the door, wondering if he’d ever be able to meet Doc’s eyes in daylight again.  

“Don’t fret yourself, young ‘un.” Doc’s voice seemed to come from far away. “Music’s gonna stop soon enough.”


End file.
